


Summoning

by Eglantine



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, Ghosts, Greek politics, Pseudo-Science, Romanticism, seances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 19:52:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5061808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eglantine/pseuds/Eglantine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire require Feuilly's aid in an important mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summoning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [estelraca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/gifts).



The pounding on the door was so loud, Feuilly was sure at first it had to be the landlord: who but a landlord knocked so insistently and so unexpectedly early on a Sunday morning? So he set aside his book and strode over to unhook the latch. Preparing himself to patiently explain that yes, he was entirely certain he did pay his rent, he opened the door to find not the landlord, but Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire, looking immensely pleased with themselves. 

“—good morning,” Feuilly said with undisguised surprise. “You two look… cheerful.” 

“Oh, yes, we are in the best of spirits—” Bahorel snorted and Jehan grinned, presumably at some private joke Feuilly was missing. Looking closer, he was beginning to suspect that this was less _morning_ for them than an uninterrupted continuation of the night before. “And speaking of…”

“Speaking of… spirits?” Feuilly asked. Then, remembering himself, quickly stepped aside. “But, well, come in if you like, though I have nothing to offer— would you prefer to go to a café, perhaps? We could all go together, I’ll just find my coat…” 

“No, no, no, this is perfect,” Jehan insisted, sweeping in, his own coat billowing behind him. Was it a coat or a dressing gown? Well, clearly Jehan was not going to discriminate between the two, Feuilly thought, so why should he. 

“You’ve had an industrious morning, it seems,” Bahorel said as he stepped inside just behind Jehan.

“Oh— yes—” Feuilly pulled the door shut, then hurried over to clear his books and papers off of the bed, both to disguise the mess, and because it was the only place to sit. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

“Then what a pleasant surprise we must be,” Bahorel said cheerfully, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. Jehan was occupied with rummaging in a rather large satchel he had slung over one shoulder. “But in point of fact, this is no mere social call.”

Jehan paused briefly in his search through the bag to lift his head and say, “We are in need of your help.” 

“Of course, anything,” Feuilly replied at once. 

“We are going to summon a spirit,” Jehan said.

“Um,” Feuilly said. “Right. What?”

“A ghost. The soul of one departed,” Bahorel said. 

Feuilly watched, fascinated, as Jehan began to pull what was, apparently, the necessary ghost-summoning equipment out of his bag: several candles, some dried flowers, some fresh flowers, some chalk, and a battered looking book that Feuilly assumed must be some sort of faux-mystical text, until a second look revealed it to be no more than a well-read volume of poetry. 

“Yes,” he said. “I understood that part. But I don’t understand what, exactly, you want me to— that is, I don’t think I’m the right person for the task.” 

“Not at all!” Jehan was arranging the candles in a circle. “You are perfect.”

“Our attempts so far have all failed,” Bahorel explained. “And we have decided that the problem is, we have not provided sufficient incentive for the spirit to appear.”

“Um,” Feuilly said. He unthinkingly tugged his slightly frayed cuffs more securely over his wrists. Bahorel, nothing this, laughed.

“Not a sacrifice!” 

Feuilly laughed too, a little less confidently. “Of course not, I didn’t really think so.” Then again, they both reeked of hash and wine— it seemed to him anything could appear plausible to them. 

Jehan finished his careful arrangements and sat back on his heels. “We wish to summon the spirit of Byron. And we will lure him with the promise of the latest news from Greece.”

“Oh!” Feuilly brightened. “Well, it’s funny you should say so, I was only just reading reports of the London Protocol. It does not go nearly far enough, in my opinion— I would be very glad to hear yours, but I suspect you will agree— of course England, France and Russia will hear of no government but a monarchy, never mind the Greek Assembly— but of course, there is no monarchy, so they shall put in some princeling of their own choosing! Surely a Greek should govern Greece! And they must still pay treaty to the Sultan, and they must give up Crete, though they have won it in battle already!” 

“Do you hear that!” Jehan shouted, his head tilted upwards, presumably towards the heavens. Knowing the little that he did of Byron’s life, Feuilly suspected the other direction might be more accurate. “Just think what more he can tell you if you just appear to us!” 

“Er, right,” Feuilly said. “Well it’s, um, it’s an admirable plan, really, but—uh—”

“What?” Bahorel asked. “It requires no exertion on your part. Just sit here, and when he appears, talk about Greece. We all know that’s no hardship to you.”

“No indeed,” Feuilly agreed. “And even if it were, I would be happy to—but that’s not--” 

“What, then?”

“…I don’t believe in ghosts.” 

He paused to allow this to sink in. Bahorel and Jehan exchanged thoughtful glances. 

“Which is not to discourage you from the attempt!” Feuilly went on. “But I wouldn’t want to dampen the mood with my-- my skepticism.” 

“It is a very good point,” Jehan said solemnly. “Doubt may disturb the balance.”

“Then we’ll have to weight the balance back towards belief,” Bahorel said decisively. He seized his hat from the bedpost where he had hung it, and without another pause, strode to the door, where he tossed a dramatic ‘I shall return!’ over his shoulder before the door shut behind him. Feuilly blinked. Jehan contentedly straightened out a piece of dried lavender. 

“You know… on the subject of Greece…” Feuilly began after a moment.

Jehan looked up. “Yes?”

“While you’re here— would you mind translating something for me?”

“No, not at all! Let me see it!”

*

Wrapped up in translations, Feuilly hardly noticed how much time had passed before Bahorel returned with two people in tow: the first, his current mistress, the deep dimples that appeared whenever she laughed (which was often) on full display as she stepped through the door; and the second, much to Feuilly’s surprise, was Combeferre. 

“I thought you were meant to be balancing out my skepticism,” Feuilly said. 

“Well,” Combeferre said, drawing out the vowel in that particular way that usually signaled he was either about to quibble about something very pedantic, or admit something slightly embarrassing— or often, somehow, both. “I don’t _not_ believe… that is, I’m entirely open to the possibility… and Bahorel deemed that sufficient.” 

“I ran into him on the way,” Bahorel added. “I didn’t seek him out, I had no idea at all of his views, though I hope that the addition of such a sober scholar and dutiful student to our party will help to persuade you, Feuilly.” 

Feuilly made a noncommittal noise and Jehan sighed. 

“Now.” Combeferre drew a small book from his pocket and moved to survey Jehan’s arrangement. “Explain to me precisely what you have done so far, so I may note it down.”

“Certainly not!” Jehan cried. “If you insist on treating it like science, you will spoil it.”

“Oh, very well,” Combeferre said with a sigh. But Feuilly noticed he didn’t put the notebook back in his pocket. 

“I don’t know if we’ve properly met,” Bahorel’s mistress said, carefully side-stepping the candles as she crossed the room to Feuilly’s side. “I’m called Toinon.”

“Feuilly,” he said. “The skeptic.” 

“Do you have any wine?” Bahorel asked thoughtfully.

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Hm. Shall I--?” 

“No, no,” Jehan said. “It is nearly nine, and performing an exorcism in broad daylight is just silly.”

“Yes, a very good point. Come on, then.”

The room was not very large, and gathering everyone round Jehan’s carefully arranged display proved a somewhat awkward process; both Jehan and Toinon ended up partly in Bahorel’s lap, thought all three seemed perfectly content with that arrangement. Combeferre tucked his notebook and pencil surreptitiously behind the folds of his coat. 

All fell silent. Feuilly couldn’t tell if they had begun or not. From the looks of it, Combeferre couldn’t either. After a few moments, they simultaneously cleared their throats.

“Is there anything we’re meant to be… doing?” Combeferre asked. 

“I was simply collecting my thoughts,” Jehan replied serenely. “First, we shall light the candles. Bahorel?” 

“And what is the purpose of—” Combeferre began, but at a sharp look from Jehan, concluded, “Never mind.” 

Jehan cleared his throat, put one hand on the book of poetry, and began to speak in a solemn, sing-song tone. As best Feuilly could tell, it was a bizarre blend of Latin, Greek, and possibly Hebrew. Combeferre arched a brow, but obediently remained silent. Out of the corner of his eye, Feuilly saw Combeferre inch his hand towards his pencil. But then Jehan abruptly stopped, and Combeferre jerked his hand back into his lap. 

This silence felt more plainly anticipatory than the first: Bahorel and Jehan closed their eyes, and after a moment of exchanged eye contact between them, Combeferre, Feuilly, and Toinon followed suit. 

Despite his certainty that nothing was going to happen, as the silence went on, Feuilly felt a strange tide of uneasiness rising in him. The air seemed closer than before, the room, even behind his eyelids, seemed to dim, as if the sun had passed behind a cloud— only it was an overcast day, and still so early, and there had been no really visible sunlight in the first place. 

Suppose a spirit did appear? If the thought had crept up on him gradually, he might have been able to force it down with sheer will and logic, but it popped suddenly, fully-formed, into the forefront of his mind. 

As a child, he had never been frightened of the ghost stories the other boys would tell to keep each other up at night. He could sit, impassive, through the eeriest tale, steadfastly refuse to jump at the startling twists. It was the sort of trait that earned one a modicum of respect in the orphan social order, though not one that it ever occurred to him to be proud of because, unlike his ability to read and write and paint, he had done nothing to earn it. 

But now, as the silence grew increasingly expectant and, to Feuilly’s mind, somewhat oppressive, he found himself hoping that it was a trait that had not abandoned him. 

(Just in case.)

Feuilly heard the faint, wooden tinkling sound of Combeferre attempting to blindly and subtly reach for his pencil. He shifted slightly and considered just opening his eyes when suddenly— Toinon gasped. 

Feuilly did not jump. His heart did, somewhere into the vicinity of his throat, but this was, as far as he could tell, not outwardly visible. His eyes flew open, and Combeferre’s did, too. 

Toinon laughed, embarrassed, as the source of the sound became immediately clear: Jehan and Bahorel’s all-night revels, the alcohol, the opium, had caught up to them at last, and with their eyes closed in the silence, both had fallen asleep and slumped sideways onto Toinon. Feuilly let out a sighing laugh that felt oddly like relief. 

“Well,” Combeferre said. “I believe that concludes that experiment.” 

He leaned across the little circle and gave Bahorel’s shoulder a smack with his notebook. “Up you come. Out of Feuilly’s way and off to a proper bed.”

“—did he appear?” Bahorel asked blearily.

“Yes,” Toinon replied, stooping to puff out Jehan’s candles and collect his flowers. “You were asleep and you missed it.” The ruse would doubtless have been slightly more effective if she weren’t already laughing. 

“We shall try again,” Jehan assured Feuilly earnestly. “I know he shall be very eager to hear your opinions on Greece.”

“Er, yes,” Feuilly said. 

“I am also eager to hear your opinions on Greece, but— another time,” Combeferre said, shepherding the others towards the door. “Tomorrow, will you be at the meeting?”

“I will, I’ll see you there,” Feuilly said. And to Bahorel and Jehan he added, “I’m very sorry your conjuration was not a success.” 

“Not a success this time!” Bahorel corrected. “Tomorrow, who knows?” 

And as abruptly as they had come, they were gone. It took Feuilly a moment or two to resettle himself into the sudden silence, to remember what he had been doing before, what he wanted to do next. As he crossed the room backwards his bed, he accidentally kicked something unseen, sending it skidding across the floor and under the bed. He knelt to retrieve it: the book of poetry. 

He looked uncertainly towards the door. Was it worth trying to pursue them? No, not with a meeting tomorrow, and Jehan likely to sleep the day away in any case. He would return it when he saw Jehan at the Musain. 

That resolved, he set the book on the windowsill and settled in to resume reading. His eye, however, was continually drawn back to the little volume. 

A shadow seemed to fall across the room.

He knew, rationally, that this was simply the sun dipping behind a building or a cloud. 

But even so he found himself plucking the book off the shelf, and sliding it quietly back under the bed. 

Just in case.

As long as he remembered to brush the dust off, they’d never have to know.


End file.
